Knuckleheads
by Politzania
Summary: "Compliance will be rewarded, Winter Soldier. Stand down and come with me." While it was a HYDRA passphrase, it had never been intended for use on the Asset. The Asset was not required to respond. The Asset complied because the mission had failed; the target was not eliminated. The promise of reward was reason enough to acquiesce. The promise was a lie.


"Compliance will be rewarded, Winter Soldier. Stand down and come with me." While it was a HYDRA passphrase, it had never been intended for use on the Asset. The Asset was not required to respond. The Asset could ignore the passphrase. The Asset could alert the authorities to the presence of a HYDRA agent. The Asset could eliminate the HYDRA agent himself. Instead, the Asset complied.

The Asset complied because the mission had failed; the target was not eliminated. The Asset had returned to the base of operations, which was overrun by the enemy. The former Mission Head's home was a crime scene and the man himself nowhere to be found. The Asset was a cast-off weapon, a discarded tool, a rudderless ship. The promise of reward, was reason enough to acquiesce.

The promise was a lie.

Equipment was substandard. There was no chair, no cryo storage. No restoration of clarity and focus; no rest after the mission. Instead, the Asset's mind was full of fractured images and sounds; clips from movies played out of order with no context. The Asset had to relearn how to sleep. His goddamned head hurt and he hated the fucking nightmares.

Maintenance was substandard. The techs showed no skill in repairing either the flesh or mechanical components of the Asset, so he was responsible for self-care. The Asset's system was not accustomed to solid food, so they provided him with what they called "old people shakes" for the two weeks or so. The strawberry was pretty good, actually, but the vanilla tasted like shit.

The missions were substandard. They involved theft of money and goods (mostly drugs) from targets designated as "bad guys." The Mission Head had specified nonlethal force whenever possible. Nonlethal techniques required additional time and effort, with a higher chance of getting hurt. But the opposition provided no real challenge - street thugs were no match for his training. He could kick their asses with one metal arm tied behind his back.

The personnel was substandard. The techs were young and inexperienced, as was the Mission Head. They did not follow protocol. They did not discipline the Asset for failed missions. They didn't care how the mission went, just what he brought back. The drugs they weren't using themselves, they sold, then blew the cash on stupid shit. He had no goddamned idea how they'd ever made it into HYDRA in the first place. The Mission Head called him "dude" and "buddy", for fuck's sake.

The Asset started challenging their authority. He invaded the Mission Head's personal space, looming just a little too close when receiving assignments or reviewing intel. He considered it a victory when he backed the guy slowly across the room during a briefing. He made it a habit to sharpen his knives while making eye contact with the techs, which made them nervous as hell. None of these dimwits could read Russian, so he started keeping notes; piecing together his memories. He grew a beard, just because he could. They didn't give a shit.

The Asset gave them nicknames. The Mission Head was Moe, and the techs were Larry and Curly. He couldn't quite remember at first where the names came from, or why it was funny, but it was. Even funnier that they didn't get it. He started stealing food from the icebox and the takeout meals when the shakes weren't enough. But he drew the line at being a bully. He remembered hating bullies.

The only smart thing these hopheads had done was to report to their superiors that they had discovered the remains of the Winter Soldier and had disposed of the body. It had been his idea to send a plate from the arm as proof. They had done it for selfish reasons, of course; to keep his talents and skills for themselves, but it didn't matter.

After yet another dumbass mission, the Mission Head approached him. "Hey, buddy... take the the rest of the day off. You deserve it." Moe pressed a wad of cash into his hand, clapped him on the shoulder and walked off, whistling nervously. This was the last fucking straw. He was sick of being their winged monkey.

He changed into civvies, grabbed his bugout bag and was on the move. He debated whether to go back to the museum, to see if the exhibit shook loose any more memories, but it was a pain in the ass to get past the metal detectors. He walked that direction anyways, for lack of anything better to do. He couldn't believe he'd wasted nearly a month with those goddamned knuckleheads.

But it hadn't exactly been wasted. They had gotten HYDRA off his back; and provided food and shelter while he was recovering. They had given him a purpose - a shitty, self-serving purpose, sure - but it had gotten him through a rough patch. And now what? It wasn't like he had a pair of ruby slippers he could click together and magically be home again. He'd seen the world change, albeit in bits and pieces, over the past half-century and more and was pretty certain he wouldn't recognize the old neighborhood. The people - friends and family - were surely all dead and gone.

Except for... oh hell, no. He was not ready to poke that rat's nest of memory and emotion yet. Yeah, he knew him - but had damned near killed him, too. Wasn't even sure he was still alive, though he'd been breathing when he left him on the riverbank. No, he was definitely not going to think about that mess yet.

The Asset heard the sound of men shouting in unison and flinched. But there was no chorus of "Hail HYDRA", and the voices seemed happy. He turned the corner to see a bar, floor-to-ceiling windows open to the late spring air. He glanced inside as he passed to see televisions tuned to a baseball game; the Dodgers were playing the Mets. The force of a memory - sitting on the bleachers on a sunny summer day, hot dog in one hand, beer in the other - struck him like a blow.

He slid into the only empty seat at the bar, down on the far end, with his left arm up against the wall. He ordered a draft Budweiser (the numbskulls only drank weird hooch with goofy names - who the hell puts pumpkin in beer or gold flakes in schnapps?), only to have it practically spilled all over him when the guy next to him - a big blond with a beard - celebrated a home run a bit too enthusiastically.

"Oh man - I am so sorry! I didn't even see you sit down there." The guy grabbed a nearby bar towel and started mopping up the puddle. "Let me buy your next one. I'm Steve."

He grabbed on to the name he remembered from the exhibit. "James." They looked quizzically at one another for a moment.

"Do I know..." they spoke over each other, then laughed nervously. After they both made the universal "you first" hand gesture simultaneously, Steve jumped in. "I had an ... accident last month and it left me a little scrambled. It seems like I remember you from somewhere."

He nodded his head in sympathy. " I'm a little out of sorts myself. You look kinda familiar, too. I take it you're a Dodgers fan?"

"From way back," Steve replied, with an odd smile on his face. "Still can't believe they moved out to LA."

"No shit. Hey, wanna shoot some pool once the ballgame's over?" He remembered being a bit of a hustler, but Steve was better, figuring the angles like a goddamned ballistics calculator. However, neither of them was taking it too seriously. They didn't bother to keep score and found themselves laughing and chatting as if they'd known each other for years.

A couple of hours had passed before Steve checked his watch. "Hey, I've got some friends meeting me down the street for dinner here in about ten minutes. Want to join us? Nothing fancy - it's a diner that does all day breakfast."

"That sounds good. Thanks." He had nowhere else he had to be - sure as hell wasn't going back to the Three Stooges and company. They were on their fucking own.

"Hey, Nat! Sam." Steve waved to two people sitting at a booth in the corner of the diner. Son of a bitch - it was the redhead from the fight on the overpass. And the guy with the wings. The rat's nest unraveled, and left him frozen in place. No wonder he and his new pal had gotten along like a house on fire. The beard had thrown him; Steve had always been clean-shaven, even out in the field.

"Steve?" Sam spoke cautiously. "Who's your new friend?" He noted the wary look on the man's face and realized that he couldn't see the redhead's hands. That wasn't good. Not good at all. They had recognized him, even if the little punk (no longer little, damn it all) didn't. But he wasn't going to fight; he relaxed his posture and kept his hands out of his pockets.

"This is James. Met him this afternoon when I almost dumped his beer in his lap. Good guy - fellow Dodgers fan." Steve squeezed his left shoulder; then sharply drew his hand back. "Oh, James, I'm sorry! I didn't notice, even when we were playing pool..."

"Jesus, Stevie - if you'd been that oblivious out in the field, the Howlies 'n I woulda been bumped off a dozen times over." The jibe came out before he could think twice. Steve's eyes grew large as saucers.

"But... they said you were dead, Buck... we took down a base last week and interrogated their leader." And he was suddenly lifted off his feet in an embrace tight enough to take his breath away. "I thought I'd lost you again." Steve fiercely whispered in his ear.

Once Steve let go (and he could breathe) he replied. "Not a chance, punk. I'm a bad penny, I always turn back up." He didn't have the words to express how he felt; not yet, not here. It was easier to joke around. "So, how are the pancakes in this joint?"


End file.
